


Find Kirk

by Gyptian



Series: Daemon I-Chaya [5]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Movie(s), T'hy'la, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyptian/pseuds/Gyptian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Enterprise arrives home, Kirk left, without a way for anyone to contact him, on an unspecified errand. Spock pursues him, because they're married, but what does that mean, really?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man and His Parents

**Author's Note:**

> So I dropped out for a while, but I'm back, hopefully with regular updates. I intend to have a new chapter online every two weeks or so. Might be more or less, depending on my schedule.

_Novelty Holo-card_

 

_Do not befriend a Vulcan lightly._

_They tend to follow you home,_

_halfway across the universe._

\- Captain Archer of the starship Enterprise

 

<('-')>

 

No one had recognised him. Mess up his hair, put on his glasses, slouch, dress in ragged clothes, and no one would seen the freshly returned captain of the Enterprise, legendary hero, in the punk aboard the late-night shuttle who wandered off into darkness.

 

Jim inhaled the air of a clear Iowan night, soothing as a cold drink. For the first time since barging onto the Enterprise's bridge with Uhura in tow, he felt alone, unobserved. Tension in his lower back uncoiled, not unpleasant at first but a permanent source of pain after weeks of standing in the spotlight. A smile curled around chapped lips when he felt his daemon approach. He held his eyes closed.

 

All he'd gained from tying himself to Spock was a telepathic link to his daemon, but he would thank Spock for it for the rest of his days. 

 

It was his dearest wish fulfilled, to be with Hayfever even when she wasn't physically there. That new hopes had proven futile.... until he could scarcely wait to finish his duties and get off the ship... he ignored for now. 

 

To feel Hayfever in his mind was an unparalleled gift. It was worth the days he'd spent wondering if he'd ever get Spock's attention.

 

This was enough.

 

Rustling in a field off to his left was accompanied by a rush of hunter's joy from Hayfever's mind. Field mice. In her opinion, they were almost as good a prey as Romulans. He mentally wished her luck when she set off to chase a mouse. With a smile, he turned left onto a deserted road, to continue his walk home from the Shipyards' port. Six miles in all, enough of a distance to clear his head and exhaust his jittery limbs. He only had a small bag for luggage.

 

By the time he stomped his now-numb feet on the front porch, opened the unlocked door and pulled off his boots, his head was blissfully empty. Hayfever was way behind. She planned to snooze the coming day away in the sun on a deck chair.

 

“Ma?” he asked the glow of light coming from the front room. A mess of dark curls and a smile came around the corner. “Nice colour.”

 

“Thank you. I've decided I don't make a good red-head, so I'm trying out life as a brunette.” The rest of Winona Kirk appeared in the doorway. “Baby, you're all stiff and drawn. Don't tell me you got it in your head to walk again?”

 

“Yeah. Wanted to stretch my legs.”

 

“Cabin fever?”

 

“Bad case of, with as many people as we had on board.”

 

She smiled, gave him a rib-cracker of a hug and strode off before he could return it, to make a pot of coffee without asking. With a shake of his head, he followed.

 

“How's your grouchy neighbourhood Sawbones doing?” She asked him, back turned.

 

He plunked himself down in a wooden chair that creaked a warning against rough treatment. He ignored it. “Alright. Preaching to the Vulcans is his new favourite pastime.”

 

“He a missionary now?” she asked, amusement dripping from her voice like drops from the ceiling of a cave, patient, present. Wearing away the walls he'd put up around his soft center.

 

“Yes, one of those old-fashioned ones with lots of chastisement and hell-fire and brimstone for the penitents that dare brave his hallowed hall. Damnation for all who do not bow to the wisdom of medicine and the holy power invested in his hypospray.” He tried to imagine McCoy with a holy light behind his head. It immediately caught fire, and a spiked tail waved from behind goat legs while he waved a hypo far scarier than any hellish trident.

 

His huff of too-tired-to-be-actual-laughter was echoed by hers. “He's more of an old-testament prophet. Now _those_ people could preach.” It was mostly in these jokes that their Baptist roots shone through. That, and there was a dusty baby-dedication holo-album somewhere in the attic. His Great-Aunt Hilda had had hysterics over how a son of Earth, born in space, should be tied by some ritual to his planet of origin. Before the Milky-Way fairies took him, or something.

 

She'd been deep into a bottle of brandy all three times she'd ranted on that particular topic, and since she helped pay for the farm, she got her wish, however incoherently expressed.

 

She gave him her “Engineers do it with antimatter” mug, the heat of the coffee wafting into his face and stinging his hands. He murmured a thanks. They sat in comfortable silence with their noses wrapped in warm steam. The sky outside grew lighter.

 

She didn't tell him she'd been up until he got home. He didn't tell her she should have gone to bed. She didn't tell him it was no trouble at all. She was a night-owl anyway. He was family. He didn't have to get embarrassed about thanking her.

 

That conversation had been had long ago. They'd played both roles in that little scene many times. Now, it went unspoken.

 

When she finished first, she rubbed him over one shoulder and stumbled up the stairs, where a door opened and didn't close, and he'd find her later in the day still clothed, asleep, when he'd go to wake her for a late brunch.

 

He managed to strip to his underwear before wrapping himself in freshly aired blankets. Oh, it was good to be home.

 

He fell asleep to the sensation of Hayfever circling and settling in her favourite sleeping chair, sunbeams already spilling over her back.

 

<('-')>

 

Spock stood on the roof of a two-storey building. Most of his view was cut off by the high wall that surrounded it, but it afforded a quieter spot for meditation than most rooms. He slept in a senior cadet's studio with his father. He'd given his quarters up to one of the intact families that had made it aboard the Enterprise.

 

He had wavered back and forth between the first and second level of meditation for the past twenty-six minutes. His father had observed for the last eight. Spock had sensed his presence, but did not wish to break the silence, because he dreaded the conversation that would follow.

 

“My son.” The words were not the expected reprimand, but somewhere between calm and wistful. Spock opened his eyes and looked at his father. Yes, his was not the only emotional control compromised. Sorrow sat heavy on his father's shoulders.

 

Sarek seated himself across from him. Between them burned a slender Terran dinner candle. Unfit for this purpose, really, when he was used to burning scented oil, but part of the supplies provided to Vulcans by Starfleet. They would have to make do, now, in all aspects of life.

 

His father stared at him for a moment more, as if gauging his state of mind. “What troubles you, beside the grief that all of us suffer?” Spock should not be surprised he could tell there was more, though no other would likely see the difference in the tight control he'd exercised over himself before and the defensive stiffness he'd adopted now.

 

The forward question made Spock's hands tremble more. “I... find myself pondering a dilemma.”

 

“Explain.” Patience still sat behind the word, where before it would have been a command snapped at him, a last chance of mercy, to make his father see his logic, before he was condemned to days of disapproval.

 

“I have a personal matter that I wish to resolve, but to do so I would have to leave our people and go against orders.” Because Starfleet's only Vulcan, hero of the Narada battle, was not to show his face. Starfleet's fight against the public's unrelenting thirst for news had escalated into a legal battle, and all security officers were working double shifts. “Attempts to make peace with that fact have proven fruitless.”

 

“I see. Have you tried meditating with assistance?” A necessity for all of them now, from time to time. “Or to find a third party who will help you resolve the conflict between you and Doctor McCoy?”

 

“No. Doctor McCoy is only tangentially related to my dilemma.” Spock wished it was that simple, but while the doctor still did not forgive him for his treatment of his friend, neither was there any disagreement between them. Mostly a difference in temperament. To Spock, it seemed the doctor was trying to undermine his control at every turn. He treated every Vulcan thus. He poked it like he would a bruise, a primitive practice Spock had glimpsed in Kirk's mind.

 

He shut down the line of thought.

 

“Then he is not the one with whom you... have shared relations.” His father had folded his hands and set his eyebrows in the same pose he used when negotiating a treaty with a potentially hostile party. “Or share a link.”

 

Spock froze. “You have sensed the link within me?” His father, in a fit of anger, had severed his paternal link with him, and it could not be rebuilt, even if they repaired their relationship. Only through that would he have had a window into Spock's mind. 

 

“No. I inferred its presence from your stability of mind in these past weeks. And because he followed you here, without prior notice.” After a pause, Sarek drew closer. “Yet I have not seen your daemons interact. He also seems antagonistic towards you.”

 

“I did not know you have observed me so closely.” Nor could Spock fathom why his father would. Distrust had been his motivation in the past, but that seemed illogical in the light of their reconciliation.

 

“Out of concern for your wellbeing. It comes with being a parent, Spock.” His father gazed at the blank wall behind Spock. “You have a link, not with Doctor McCoy, but he plays a role somehow. It troubles you, correct?” Spock nodded. Sarek sighed. “You will have to explain further, Spock. I cannot extrapolate the story from these facts alone.”

 

“I had found someone, it is true, with whom I had hoped to build a relationship. However, I neglected... them... in the aftermath of our tragedy and now this person is gone. Both Doctor McCoy and I are waiting for news of their current whereabouts. He followed me here because he hoped I would be contacted sooner.” A partial truth, Spock hoped, would suffice.

 

“Ah.” Sarek cocked his head, as if he wanted more information, but did not ask. Instead, he resumed his inspection of Spock until he said, abruptly, “Pursue them and repair your relationship.” When Spock made to protest, he added. "Spock, understand that it is hard for a Vulcan to function in a time of turmoil without an anchor. We have much ahead of us and any support that we can rally we must. 

 

“You will be of far greater use to your people with a peaceful mind.” He stood and gestured for Spock to follow him. “I will show you how to travel without being recognised. Come.”

 

“Father?” Spock asked.

 

Sarek waited until they had entered their room to explain. “I have many years of experience in how to keep a low profile, Spock. It is the one obstacle I may remove for you. The rest of what troubles you, you will have to resolve for yourself, but inaction does not seem to have served you so far.” He bowed his head. “In this case, Spock, the well-being of one serves all. We are all waiting to see what steps will be taken to secure the future of our race on some planet yet to be announced. I am doing all I can to ensure the right choice is made. Until that time, however, we can only wait, attempt to help each other and set what steps we can in rebuilding our lives.”

 

He folded his hands behind his back and lowered his voice. “I confess that is not all that motivates me. Two puritans, both from the Spuroq clan, have a spot on the interim council. They are pushing for complete isolationism, Spock. Should they succeed, I wish you to have ties outside of Vulcan, because you would even less welcome than you have been in the past.”

 

They had arrived at their shared apartment and entered. Most space was taken up by the twin beds. "Spock, I cannot emphasise how important it is either to reconcile with the person you're linked to, or to break that link and betrothe yourself to someone willing to be your partner. I, myself, was only mediocre in my accomplishments as an ambassador until I met Amanda. She helped me as a partner would, yes, but she also gave me the stability of mind so I could perform better myself. We are not meant to be alone. I know you have been, and it gratifies me that you have become an excellent Starfleet officer in spite of that. Still, I wish for you to be all that you can be in the future. You are, after all, a son of the House of Surak, and meant for greater things."

 

Spock could not meet his father's eyes and express his thanks, or reciprocrate in sharing his thoughts equally. In the end, all that he managed was, “You are most eloquent in your concerns.”

 

Sarek hummed. “I confess that, in preparation for this conversation, I spoke to McCoy, since I thought him to be your new lover. I believe we misunderstood each other somewhat, but he advised me in very colourful language that I should speak with you.” He stepped closer, until he stood inside Spock's personal space, and a faint echo of his presence, his thoughts, pressed against Spock. “Amanda has often told me the same. She cannot be here anymore to fulfill that role. I must do so now, lest all she worked for is lost.” He put two hands on Spock's upper arms. “Do what you must, Spock, to find your partner, whoever he or she is.”

 

A short while later, they had fitted Spock with some nondescript dark pants and a shirt from two helpful neighbours who had some Terran clothes, and a wig Sarek still carried, for the purpose of dodging the press and making a quick getaway. This was the a side to the life of a diplomat that was new to Spock.

 

Sarek saw him out the back gate.

 

His father already had one hand on the wrought iron to close it, when Spock turned back to him. “He is my t'hy'la.”

 

He walked away, his father's face still and clear and hopeful in his memory.

 

He stretched out his mind along where it felt like a limb had been chopped off. Tried to sense the direction it went in. He breathed a sigh of relief when it drew him east.

 

Time to win back what he'd lost.

 

I-Chaya joined him when he reached the edge of the city. Sarek had advised him to walk to the next town and rent a hovercar there. The daemon huffed.  _Finally. I thought you would deny your instincts forever._

 

_I lacked direction. My father's advise was helpful._

 

_You knew where you needed to go all along. You just lacked the courage to start hunting._

 

_Jim is not prey._

 

 _He's very tasty,_ I-Chaya teased, and sent a sense-memory of exactly how Kirk tasted. To I-Chaya, remembering Kirk's taste resembled appreciation of his hair colour. 

 

Spock... adjusted his Terran jeans.  _Please desist._


	2. And Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems I was inspired today, so, bonus chapter!

“ _We imagine the most epic romances to take place where they cannot, such as in Orion harems, when half those girls aren't even sentient. We forget they can happen anywhere... between a boringly respected witch liaison and an upstanding alien ambassador who is, if possible, even more boring. Together, they've created more of an uproar than any pair of controversial individuals. And I, for one, am_ loving _it.”_

 _-_ Lorelei Ladylove, intergalactic romantic holo-actrice, when asked what she thought of the human Amanda Grayson marrying Vulcan ambassador Sarek.

 

<('-')>

 

Sarek sat down at a blandly white two-person table, across from McCoy, who had covered it in its entirety with several PADDs, writing utensils and empty cups and plates. The doctor's daemon, a spiked animal, sat on his head. The doctor himself lay over his materials, one arm underneath his head. He snored softly.

 

When Sarek sat, he half-woke, and mumbled indistinctly, “Don't want to be disturbed. What'd you think all the stuff's for?” He dropped his head back down, but didn't resume his snoring, so Sarek assumed he was awake.

 

“I find your honesty refreshing, doctor. But I am faced with a matter urgent enough that I must disturb your rest.” He arranged his robe carefully, and then sat waiting until McCoy lifted his head and glared at him. “I have followed your advise and spoken to my son. It seems he has found that most mythical of all partners, his t'hy'la, as you would say, his-”

 

“-soulmate. Yeah, yeah. And you talked to him, all's hunkydory, and now you can go back to being a smug little whirring computer. Good for you. Go away.”

 

“You have grown less agreeable.”

 

“No, really.”

 

“Indeed, you are. May I be of assistance, as you have been to me?” Sarek offered out of... more than politeness. A human who advised him on emotional matters was invaluable. Especially since Amanda's loss. She had been his touchstone.

 

“Oh, no, hell no. I'll grow a flying pig out of my arse the day I ask a Vulcan to listen to me talk about my feelings.” McCoy stood, and started gathering his materials.

 

“That is impossible,” Sarek pointed out.

 

“Exactly, that's the point.” He stopped when he only had a handful of pens left to put in his back. “Look, I'll give you another freebie, because you're not all bad if you went to talk to your son. Human males, much like Vulcans, do not talk about their feelings, if they can. We're just as emotionally constipated as you, okay? So just... don't. I appreciate the offer, but don't.” He walked away with some speed, Sarek observed, and he wondered where the doctor needed to be, all of the sudden. 

 

He would have to tell him of Spock's departure later. The doctor seemed to have a stake in the matter, something they had in common. It would make a good reason for more conversation and that Sarek could use for his own purposes. He had several decades' experience in patiently building on people's commonalities until they signed treaties. Even when they started out hostile. 

 

The effort was warranted. The doctor had followed Spock here out of loyalty for Spock's future bondmate. When it had led him to a group of people lost and hurting over their destroyed planet and decimated race, instead of retreating or offering false sympathy, he had set himself the mission of helping as many of them as he could, as best he could. 

 

An ally worth courting indeed.

 

<('-')>

 

“Doctor McCoy, are you free?”

 

“Ambassador. I apologise, no, I'm not. Too many green-blooded headcases with ouchies today.”

 

“Do Terrans put heads on cases, doctor?”

 

“...”

 

“Please do not distress yourself, doctor. I am well-versed in Terran imagery. I was married to a Terran, after all.”

 

<('-')>

 

“Doctor McCoy, goodmorning.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“It is morning.”

 

“Yeah, and to me, it's night, I'm going to sleep, bye now.”

 

“Sleep well, doctor.”

 

<('-')>

 

“Ambassador.”

 

“Doctor. What brings you to my doorstep?"

 

“I need a translator. Too many of my patients have messed-up minds that they can only explain in their own language, which is cute, but also a pain in the arse." 

 

“They have come to you with matters of mind-healing. I thought you were concentrating on physical ailments.”

 

“Yeah, well, Plucky of the Bristling Eyebrows of Doom was all competent and stoic, but as it turns out, he was too competent for too long. He collapsed from exhaustion.”

 

“...You mean healer Pulickar?”

 

“Who else?”

 

Sarek rose from behind his desk and followed McCoy to the set of classrooms that had been set up as offices and rooms for patients. “Spock sends his greetings.”

 

“Huh. Where is Junior, by the way?” The doctor himself didn't look far from collapsing in exhaustion himself.

 

“He left a week ago. He is seeking his t'hy'la.”

 

“And you tell me now?” the doctor exclaimed, but before Sarek could apologise, he smiled and nodded. “So the hobgoblin went and became pro-active. Good for him. Hopefully they can smack some sense into each other when they hit those hard heads together. Idiots, the pair of them.” He rubbed his hands together.

 

“That seems unnecessarily violent.”

 

“Hah! There is no unnecessary violence where Jim is concerned. That boy can use all the tough love he can get. He doesn't stand still long enough to listen to reason most of the time, too busy barrelling on to do the next foolhardy thing that pops in his head. You need to hold him down and beat it into him for him to pay attention to anything.”

 

“Doctor, do you mean that Spock's t'hy'la is Captain James Kirk?”

 

The doctor moved his eyebrows up and down while he stared at Sarek. “Like it could be anyone else, the way those two drooled over each other for weeks before the crazy Romulan reared his head." 

 

“...Indeed.” It was surprising, the identity of Spock's beloved. Sarek drew himself up. It was only advantageous to learn it now. It would give him time to incorporate this into his plans for the future of the Vulcan people. “Doctor, please inform me what you wish me to do in the infirmary. I do not wish to impinge on doctor-patient confidentiality.”

 

“Yeah, no. I think we'll start with the list of gibberish I need to know. See if that helps. And perhaps a crash course in the basics of mind-voodoo. I need to know who's shoveling bullshit and who really needs help.”

 

“Vulcans are not in the habit of requesting help they do not need.”

 

“Yeah, hear that? That's my bullshit-meter going off. 'Cause what you didn't take into consideration there, oh logical one, is precisely how paranoid and doctor-could-this-splinter-in-my-finger-give-me-gonorrhea you people are where your minds are concerned.” 

 

The good doctor himself required a measure of translation in order to be understood. “I have two hours before my meeting with admiral Pike. We can schedule further meetings should it prove necessary.” 

 

<('-')> 

 

Spock paused in his search in the shuttleport of Houston, Texas. He was drawn in a different direction again. He'd gone back and forth a few times already, in hovercars and shuttles, from east to west, or north to south, only to find he'd somehow overshot his target. It seemed he needed a slower method of travel in order to follow the pull of his bond with Kirk more precisely. 

 

 _You will be mine, t'hy'la,_ he told the open sore in his head, _and know it. Know exactly what it means._  

 

I-Chaya, a vigilant sentinel by his side, growled in agreement. He put his hand in his fur. _We'll find them,_ the daemon said, in part to convince himself. The memory of a cat, attempting to hide in a standard starfleet storage container and getting stuck, needing I-Chaya to lift her out, accompanied it.

 

<('-')> 

 

T'Mika knocked on the door to Ambassador Sarek's and Commander Spock's room. Spock had missed their appointment to check on how their Vulcan flora samples were faring on Earth, left chiefly in the care of Starfleet botanists. No pressing matters had presented themselves when she'd gone over everything, but for him to be absent without notification was uncharacteristic. 

 

“Enter,” someone inside said. 

 

“Want me to leave you alone?” another man said, whom she recognised as the human healer when she opened the door. 

 

“Unnecessary, unless you have a complicated matter to discuss?” The question was aimed at T'Mika. 

 

She stood inside. “I merely wished to inform you Spock was not present for my meeting with him, nor did he contact me to reschedule.” 

 

“He is well. He had pressing business elsewhere he had to pursue immediately. He keeps me informed.” The Ambassador sat on the chair by a small desk, while the human had seated himself on the bed, a plethora of materials spread about him. Neither daemon was visible. 

 

<('-')> 

 

Jim Kirk woke, still hiding out in his ancestral home, a week after he'd arrived here. He was only supposed to have stayed for a short visit with his mother, check up on her. But it had been so very nice to be taken care of for a little while. They didn't see much of each other, especially these last few years. 

 

Time was growing short, however, for answering his summons. 

 

So today, when he rolled out of bed, he grabbed his bag again and repacked the few possessions he'd brought, as well as a few childhood souvenirs. A jacket from the back of his closet went under his arms. A belt he hadn't worn since he was seventeen sat snug around his waist. 

 

Hayfever sat in the kitchen window when he came down. She turned to him, distinct approval in the flick of her tail. 

 

His mother whistled. “You out to charm the ladies today, Jim?” She didn't know about Spock. That was still too raw. 

 

He shook his head. “No, I'm going to visit an old friend.” He gave her a smack on the cheek. “I gotta go. I want to catch an early shuttle.” Something was telling him to go, quickly, now, if he wanted to go at all. As if someone was after him. 

 

Otherwise he'd probably never go at all. 

 

“Oh, you want a ride to the shuttleport?” 

 

“That'd be good.” 

 

<('-')> 

 

Spock stopped at the Riverside Shipyards shuttleport. It seemed Jim had gone home. Why that would be classified, Spock could not imagine. 

 

Two brunettes in civilian clothing with large sunglasses dodged between reporters grouped around the entrance. One had a reptile clinging to her shirt. The other one didn't have a visible daemon. Spock almost dismissed them, until I-Chaya squeaked and sprang up, ran to the side of the building, where a stack of boxes sat beside a maintenance entrance, Spock saw in his mind's eye. 

 

A cat had been snacking from a stratched-open garbage bag, but exploded into bristling fur and hissing when I-Chaya came closer. _Hayfever, please,_ Spock heard I-Chaya begging, while cold recognition held him still by the neck. 

 

 _Jim, Jim,_ was all he could think, now the man was so close, so close. 

 

The door beside the stacks of garbage opened, and Hayfever dodged inside between the legs of a cleaner. I-Chaya was ready to bowl the man over, but the human closed the door quickly when he saw the giant daemon coming at him, so I-Chaya smacked into the door instead. Pain exploded in both their heads. 

 

He blacked out. 


	3. The Ghost of Tarsus Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand we're back. Previous chapters have been edited a bit, though you will likely still find typo's. Such is the curse of familiarity with a story.
> 
> You'll notice that this fic, like others, is marinaded in cliches. I hope to put in enough originality to keep you entertained. Sarek and Bones continue to be prominent.
> 
> A note on worldbuilding: you might wonder why Kirk is giving people the slip relatively easily. Gene Roddenberry made up Star Trek in the sixties, a time when they couldn't conceive of the levels of security and surveillance you see on twenty-first century Earth. In my head-canon, that never quite left the Star Trek universe. Their world is much more peaceful, and defense is mostly aimed at extra-terrestrial threats. Thus, the only true threat to Kirk's privacy is a very nosy press and commanding officers that abuse their power.

“ _I delived eight healthy male babies today. They were all named James. And three girls named Jamie.”_

\- anonymous nurse at the Sao Paulo University Medical Training Centre.

Procrastination had one advantage: no one _expected_ James Tiberius Kirk to sit on his arse. Most of the media speculated he'd been closeted with admirals, the president, ambassadors. Some even thought that he'd gone on a secret mission to Romulus to make peace with an Empire that'd grown very nervous after someone of their species had destroyed the planet of one of the founding members of the Federation.

He was intergalactic superhero number one, take no substitutes, and the first few days the manhunt had concentrated itself in San Francisco. Gradually, it shifted to Riverside, because everyone was – correctly – expecting him to visit his mother.

He was ahead of them there. That he'd lazed around the farm a week allowed most of the press to break up camp in California, especially when word got out that Starfleet had sent all the Enterprise's officers out of state, on Starfleet's dime if necessary.

So he planned to break the rules and return to California for the classified part of his little trip. He planned to do some sightseeing with Bones after that. It would be good to see the planet was still standing and mostly intact with his own two eyes.

Winona'd said goodbye to him in the hall, glasses on her nose and hair bound up beneath a scarf, dressed in a vest thrown over pyjama's, as if she was a housewife who'd only gotten decent enough to see off her brother at the airport. No one took a second glance.

Jim'd given her a distracted kiss. He hadn't missed the fact that Hayfever had fled inside a back door with a sehlat on her heels, only for a conveniently closing door to give her some respite.

He'd secluded himself in a bath stall to wait. Hayfever was sitting on his lap, tail swishing back and forth. _That was close,_ she said.

 _I thought you'd be happy to catch up with them. You miss I-Chaya._ Like he missed Spock, only Spock didn't want him, while the two daemons had been inseparable.

Hayfever considered that. She'd become more settled, less likely to run away since they'd bonded. It showed in moments like this, when she stopped to think. _He was an excellent friend, but I've had good friends in the past. I'm your daemon Jim. We are one soul. And I will not pass you over for the daemon of a man that takes more than he gives._ She sniffed. _Besides, it took them a week to feel sorry enough to take a shuttle over to Riverside to apologise. That's just lame._

Jim laughed softly at that.

 _No, seriously,_ she told him. _I settled as a_ cat. _Independent, handsome, smart, and top of the foodchain. We do_ not _wait around for our mates until they're ready to come to us. They prove that they are worth our attention, and then_ maybe _we'll consider making time for them. This little step-on-me-I'm-just-a-little-rodent routine you have around some people is just insulting._

He was unable to stop the amusement settling in his bones and kicked out the gloom. _Oh, god, this whole disaster was worth it just to get this connection to you._ He stroked her back until she settled down in relieved smugness.

 _Of course. We deserve everything, up to and including being crowned king of the universe. We saved it, after all._ Her rusty purr made Jim relax, in turn, until he could once more face his close brush with the spectre of that t'hy'la clusterfuck.

So, Spock had very likely read his letter, and condescended to come and apologise, now that his people were all good and settled. Jim meant something to him. Even if he was just a complication, a human mind that happened to fit well with his half-Vulcan one and saved his sanity.

 _Oh, come on,_ Hayfever said, _don't deny that both of you enjoyed that night together. He felt plenty of warm fuzzies for you then._

Yeah, alright, so he was at least a friend to Spock. A shieldmate, which was like a brother-in-arms, right? They'd fought side by side, and that'd been good too. It was just that Vulcans could shut off their feelings, so being a friend was a part-time occupation. And yeah, they'd been lovers.

So. That covered all of those bases.

Now Spock needed to marry, but he considered Jim unfinished business, so to Riverside he came. Maybe to apologise. Maybe because he didn't like the mental shield Jim'd put up after all. Spock the elder had warned him of that, tried to explain that Vulcans actually liked the mental chatter.

 _Bully for him. You needed it for your own sanity just as bad._ Hayfever started licking his hand.

Yeah, and _that_ hadn't been a truth he'd been able to face until he'd spilled his guts to his mother two nights back. He'd tried to explain he'd shut off this link for Spock's own good. His mother had only sighed, “Oh honey, half the time I did something for George's or Frank's good, it was at least fifty percent selfish need. Relationships are a balancing act like that, and you need to acknowledge what's happening with yourself. Were you happy?” He'd denied that. “Well then you very likely needed some space, and you can't be properly alone if he's up in your mind with you all the time.”

True, that.

What he hadn't told his mother was how he'd run after Spock all over the ship, intent on asking him if he'd come along, pretty please, on this trip, like a little puppy. Because he was going to have to do something harder than face Starfleet's worst enemy to date.

Face his own past.

 _It won't be all that bad. She was always there for us. It'll be good to see her again,_ Hayfever said, but didn't sound convinced.

_I don't know. I did kind of turn my back on them._

_Yeah, so let's go and see if we can't set the record straight on that._ Hayfever sprang from his lap, filled with renewed purpose. _Come on, she asked for us, and that message was sent before we did the heroics bit._

Yes, which was the reason Jim was going in the first place. He'd have been too suspicious of her motives otherwise. It was just... _He could still be out there._

Hayfever scratched at the door. _It's not like I never played look-out before. I'll go check._ He opened the door for her, and then settled down to wait like a cowardly idiot.

 _Stop angsting, seriously. That is not the way of the cat,_ Hayfever admonished him.

 _Yes, oh wise one,_ he snarked back.

 _You better finally be learning to listen to me._ While she talked to him, she sent along a dim impression of slinking through a forest of legs. It seemed the waiting hall – both for arrivals and departures, because Riverside was small and for domestic-only shuttles – was filled with travellers and press. Hayfever clawed the legs of anyone with a camera, tourists included.

 _You're starting to turn into Bones._ The lecturing of Jim, the sadistic streak... He kicked a few memories of the doctor in all his overprotective glory over to Hayfever.

 _Yeah, well, at least he talks sense._ She jumped up and up until she was sitting on top of a newspaper stand. The crowd was shifting and moving with people that needed to be somewhere, it was true, but most of them seemed to be shuffling towards the entrance, to get a good look at what was happening there. No Spocks in the hall. _It's safe to come out and make a run for your shuttle, I'm just going to check this out._ She jumped down.

 _Don't,_ he told her, only to be ignored. He sighed and went over to his shuttle as inconspicuously as he could. They'd selected the shuttle carefully. In the middle of the day, on a weekday, he'd have a row of seats to himself. He'd put on his normal glasses again. His mother had painted his hair the same brown as hers, and it was slicked back instead of tousled. Some theatre-grade make-up and coloured contacts hopefully gave his face a different enough shape and colouring to fool even auto-facial-recognition.

His stint of fame after Tarsus served him well now, he knew enough to change his gait, round his shoulders and still keep his eyes forward, so he didn't seem to be hiding.

Gustav Opal, shy brown-haired guy and of no interest to anyone, boarded the shuttle without arousing any suspicion. _Hurry up, Hayfever, we're leaving in ten minutes. Doors close in five._

Hayfever succeeded in reaching the edge of the crowd outside the entrance. She had to lay down to hide a bout of snickering in her paws, Jim sensed. She let him see through her eyes how a set of paramedics was loading an unconscious Spock into an ambulance.

 _He's alright, but it seems I-Chaya hit the door behind me hard enough to knock the both of them out._ The sehlat was being heaved into the same vehicle with the help of four bystanders.

One of the press members was holding a wig high in the air, brandishing it like a trophy while he talked into the camera aimed at him. _Oh, man, he's going to be all over the news. Starfleet brass is going to have a shit-in-the-pants of galatic proportions._

Pure. Glee.

That was Hayfever and Jim's minds together for that moment. Because this little bit of cosmic justice could not even bring them in the general vicinity of guilt, and they had a healthy dose of disrespect for all brass after all the political hemming and hawing they'd done after the _Enterprise had saved the planet, what do you mean you won't meet our every perfectly reasonable demand?_ Yeah. They had a bit of a grudge against every admiral except Pike.

Quickly, she skittered away to join Jim in the shuttle.

<('-')>

When T'Mika once again visited Sarek, he let her in without a word. “You have heard,” she said.

He gestured to McCoy, who was sitting in front of a portable screen on the only table in the room, muttering to himself, mouth stretched wide over his teeth _._ T'Mika eyed him in distaste. “Why do you find pleasure in another creature's pain, healer?” He whipped his head up.

“I don't!” he exclaimed.

"You do. You are amused, while images of the Commander lying unconscious play in a loop on your screen. You cannot be amused for any other reason.” A was happening, in the presence of B, with no C in evidence, therefore A is clearly caused by B. Sometimes the simplest logical connections needed to be explained to humans.

“Look, little Miss Prim-and-Proper, the pointy-eared dunce has been running all over the place for two _days,_ clearly hasn't found Jim yet. Now he's finally made his way to Riverside, and why didn't he do that in the first place, I want to know, and he fainted like a belle at the ball and he has to be hauled to a hospital.” He grinned. “How's that not funny?”

“Doctor,” Sarek said. “Do you see what else is around?” He approached the screen again, eyes intent on the images flickering past.

“No, what? There's just a crowd and the paramedics.”

“Exactly, _human.”_ She failed in keeping the spite out of her voice, and the Ambassador threw her an admonishing glance. She ignored him. Her control was compromised for good reason, and she was tired of humans misunderstanding her people. “He is surrounded by aliens who do not respect his privacy, who will touch him out of curiosity and perversity, each one depositing their surface thoughts in his mind while his defenses are down because he was stunned. Vulcans control their minds. He should not have been unconscious so long. It is because humans are touching him, _harming_ him, that his mind sleeps and focuses inward for so long, to clean up the mental detritus.” She stopped herself before she started on a tangent that the same kind of humans, the _media,_ were responsible for Vulcans having to stay inside, like prisoners, packed too close together to ever truly have a quiet moment in which to lower their telepathic walls and rest their minds.

Rather than be insulted however, the human looked at her with his healer's face, sharp eyes, flat mouth and relaxed facial muscles. When she stopped speaking, he turned to the ambassador. “See, told you I needed a crash course in mind-voodoo.” He sighed. “How can I know these things if you don't _tell me._ ”

“A point well-made, doctor, and often too.” He regarded T'Mika. “I ask that you treat the exact nature of Spock's errand as confidential. To clarify, the one he is seeking, Jim, is his t'hy'la, to whom he is linked.”

She bowed. “I will.” She turned to the human. “Doctor. I was schooled in the basics of mindhealing. I could provide you with the information you require.”

He goggled at her. “You understood that?”

“We are becoming familiar with your variety of Standard, doctor McCoy. When one of your expressions is deciphered, we share the information amongst ourselves, so that your patients might eventually not be so confused anymore.”

He sat back. “Well, shoot my chickens for a funeral feast.”

She exhaled at the unfamiliar idiom. The doctor seemed to have an unlimited store of them. “We hope to succeed eventually.”

<('-')>

'Gustav Opal' and his barn cat daemon exited the shuttle in San Francisco. A middle-aged woman in a showy purple dress, off one shoulder, the other a three-quarter sleeve, flaring skirts, and black heels, waited for Jim to embrace her. “Want to play boytoy to my cougar?” she whispered in his ear.

True to his flirtateous heart, he had no problem placing a smacking kiss on her lips and declaring, “You don't look a day over sixty, you're barely even grey-haired.”

“Thanks, love,” said Emmy Mallory, 89 and counsellor to one J.T., survivor of the Tarsus massacre and his compatriots. She tucked her hand in his elbow and led him to her hovercar. “So, Kevin's been with us a week now. He's brought us all up to speed, playin' your John the Baptist.”

“Oh no!” He buried his head in his hands. Hayfever hissed from the backseat. “If _anyone_ is going to call me a god _again,_ I am lynching them. It's against the rules.”

“What rule was that?” she asked and he realised that with all he'd told her about his time in Tarsus, hell, she was the honorary member of their little refugees-from-hell club, he'd never shared that tidbit. “Oh! There was something in the Forest Rulebook against worshiping you, seriously?”

He shrugged, exhaled. He could already feel his mind clicking over onto a new track, the Captain-of-the-Enterprise mantel a dim memory, the relief of a week spent being just Winona's son receding in favour of a new-old weight settling on his shoulder. J.T., leader of the Tarsus survivors. A responsibility more personal and heavy than anything Starfleet could throw at him. “Just a joke, like most of the later stuff.” He smiled. Making up new, ridiculous rules with the group at night had been one of his favourite things. Laughing hard while they made up unreal threats at day's end, things that, in the stories they spun, they _could_ fight. “No impersonating a god, unless it was done for a pre-warp society and it involved a harem, big feasts every day and all you needed to do was the bless everyone at noon. No sacrificing allowed, no exceptions,” he quoted. Unlike their false god, Kodos, who had demanded they sacrifice their souls for him and who had given nothing but hunger and death in return.

“A harem?” she asked dryly.

“I was a teenager. I blame the hormones.”

She was the only counselor they'd been able to stand. She took them seriously, but never dragged them further down their black hole. Instead she helped them salvage the few blessings they'd received. Like, _you've survived_. Like, _you've got each other_. Like, _you have a future and that bastard is deader than a doornail, what are you gonna do to spite him? Exactly, have a good life and give him a mental middle finger._

Two hours passed, sometimes they talked, sometimes they were silent together.

Jim listened to Emmy describe the few Tarsus survivors that had come up to the Grouphouse, their little place of retreat and yes, still open to them, if they needed a break, in the hopes of seeing him.

Finally, his patience ran out, because Tarsus really wasn't something that combined well with the left-overs of the Spock fiasco and the big Save-Vulcan-Oops-No-Save-Earth-Whew mission. “Emmy, you didn't ask me to come here for a reunion, or for therapy, or you would have sent a more tactful invitation than “come when you can, need J.T.”.”

She exhaled. “Yeah. I had hoped you'd be here sooner, to be honest.”

“Couldn't. Needed to be seen leaving California by my bosses.”

“No, that part I understand. It was just I thought fancy Starfleet ships could zap instantly from place to place these days.” They were on a winding mountain road by now.

“We deposited the part we needed for that in a black hole.”

She took the time to steer around a few sharp curves. “I do not know which part of that sentence is most disturbing.”

“Yeah, well. Gave me time to get street cred as a Captain.” He closed his eyes. “Emmy. Tell me.”

She blew air out her nose, like an angry bull. “It's Carol Marcus.”

“Yeah. Heard something was going on with her from Kevin. What's up with her?” He wasn't looking at anything, wasn't. He was safe in his little dark world, where he needed to be.

“Should have known some of it would reach you. Well, she went off the deep end couple of weeks ago. I had her on suicide watch. She's better now, _that_ we've got in hand. But... the rest she needs to tell you herself, Mr. Saviour.”

“Ain't no-one's saviour, told you that.” He could feel the tension rising in Hayfever. _This,_ the pressure, the never-ending roll of guilt and responsibility, the repetitive roll-call of the dead was what she'd run from for years.

She chuckled darkly, even as she slowed for another corner. This was where they went up a loose-gravel road that seemed to dead-end in a forest. A simple deception, it fooled most curious souls. “You shouldn't take it personally, kid. You're their leader, their example, for better or for worse, for the rest of their life. To them, you can do anything. They'd blame you like a conspiracy theorist would blame the government and an terrorist would blame their god. By the same token, they'll come to you for help all their lives.”

“I'm a scapegoat, too now?”

“Y'are. Comes with the territory. Get used to it, this'll happen on a massive scale after the media and Johnny in the streets are done having a circle jerk over you and your heroics.” She made a cylinder out of her hand and waved it up and down.

He groaned and put his face in his hands. Again. “I'm just one of hundreds who did their _job._ And we lost Vulcan, anyway!”

“Yeah, but the Terrans don't much care about that at the moment. They're too busy being relieved they're alive and you, you make a good story. Son of a hero, run-of-the-mill childhood in small-town America, teenage trauma, air of mystery, Starfleet's lost sheep that returned to the fold, photogenic face, big blue eyes and even I have to admit you've got one very, very fine arse.” She leaned forward to look where she needed to make a sharp corner around a thick bunch of trees that framed a narrow packed-dirt driveway. “Seriously, J.T., yesterday evening there was a chat show on about clairvoyants claiming to have prophesied the whole shebang at the time of your birth.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Oh yes. The witches had to step in, that's how bad they became. They insulted them for not having foreseen this. That hasn't happened in thirty _years.”_

“Oh God, I just know my mother will be glued to the screen, with popcorn. She's, like, morbidly fascinated with people going hysterical over our family. Has every single bad holo-picture made about the Kelvin.” He let his hands fall in his lap. “And Uhura's gonna torture me with scary competence and icy politeness for years if the witches got pulled into the limelight.”

“Deal with it. It's all you can do.” And oh, here was a classic Mallory admonishment, and he could almost hear Bones saying the same thing. Maybe he had a type, where pseudo-parental-figures was concerned.

“True.” He took a deep breath and got out of the car that'd stopped on a wider patch of dirt in front of a house hidden in a circle of redwoods. Mallory, secret genius that she was, had figured out that a house in the forest would feel safe to survivors who'd hidden themselves in a forest, and made sure the forest was different enough not to remind them _too_ much. 

It was still a sanctuary to the twenty-one survivors who hadn't died of complications or suicide. He hopped up the stairs easily. During their stay here, Hayfever hadn't disappeared completely, like she had during Jim's time at the Academy. Instead, she'd made a habit of returning every few days, after she'd run herself to exhaustion, to recuperate. 

Now, she touched noses with Truzonian, Emmy's daemon. “Hey, there,” Jim said, kneeling down to look the badger in the eye. “How's everyone?”

“Alive and as healthy as they can be.” It was the answer, always, and all they could ask for. Jim bowed his head in gratitude, as he always did. Their little ritual, because standard greetings would be empty. 

He rose again, and turned around to look at who was there. A few kids, refugees from some other off-world disaster that were being treated by Emmy right now, had come from the second door on the left. Rec room, Jim remembered. They didn't recognise Jim and retreated back into the room, disinterested. Jim breathed in relief at the small reprieve. 

“Yeah. You're going to want to freshen up,” Mallory said. “Blue guestroom should do it.”

His old room. Yeah, he was J.T. again, alright. Time to look the part. “I'll be down in half an hour.” He accepted the bag she'd carried up for him. He'd forgotten it in the truck, not used to arriving here with any possessions at all. 

The bag was Starfleet issue, he noticed now. Only in Starfleet-heavy shuttleports like Riverside and San Francisco, would that be that inconspicuous. He'd need to pay better attention next time.

“I'll have lunch ready by then.”

<('-')>

Being ambassador of an endangered species had its advantages. Sarek arranged a private shuttle for his injured son. Spock would be shipped to San Francisco and treated by the man registered as his personal doctor, one of the few with experience in treating a Vulcan, and a half-Vulcan at that. Or so he told the George Kirk Memorial hospital and Riverside medical shuttle company.

Spock could have recovered in a standard hospital, all he needed was some rest, but Sarek wanted to have a discussion on logic and relationships with his son.

The good doctor had given him valuable advise again, though not on purpose. “...idiot Romeo followed his so-called logic. Well, where's the logic in this, huh, that he took so long to reach Riverside... _Everyone_ knows the Kirks have a farm there, and I do mean everyone. Kids get taught about the great George Kirk in _primary_ school, they're that famous, and that only got worse after Jimmy did his Peter Pan impression.”

“Doctor,” he'd patiently said to the doctor, interrupting his pacing between the twin grey-sheeted beds, from beige wall to beige wall. “Kirk and Spock are connected by an unbreakable telepathic link. It was but instinct to him to follow the pull of it until he found his mate.”

“Right, which took him two days? The doctor had leaned into his personal space, fiercely scowling. His hair almost resembled Skoptili's spikes, since he had run his hands through. “And by all the holy socks of Saint Hanna, call me _Leonard._ I'm spending more time here than in my own room, even asleep. I am officially declaring us friends. Also, explain to me _how_ it isn't logical to get to know your _soulmate_ enough, say by talking to his _best friend_ for five minutes and finding out the address of places he could be before gallivanting off after a mystical whosit on a quest. God, Vulcans on white horses, there was a mental image I didn't need.”

Sarek was satisfied he had managed to make the doctor declare him a friend. The doctor's words, however, were too harsh. “There was no time, Leonard. He left immediately after resolving to find the Captain.”

“And he's called you every day since. No just...” he rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Look, this will probably make me a very bad human in your eyes, but I'm divorced, okay? And in the years before my wife left me, I got a very hard lesson in the big, big difference between a relationship and a marriage. My relationship with Jocelyn ended before our kid was even born. We kept up the pretense of a marriage for Joanna's sake, but it didn't last. Couldn't, because we were about ready to kill each other on sight and Jocelyn'd found someone else. You get what I'm saying here?” The doctor had tensed, hands before him in supplication, frown on his face as if it pained him to say this.

Sarek decided to offer something personal in return. This, he had learned from Amanda, was where individuals and diplomats were similar. If they left themselves open, they appreciated it if the courtesy was returned. 

Too late had he learned that a child always felt vulnerable, and needed an adult to come down to their level.

“Leonard.” He paused to be sure of his phrasing. Best to start with some context. “Traditionally, we link the minds of our children to that of their future bondmate at the age of seven. It is not unusual that that link is broken when a better partner is found. Divorce is... rare, but not illogical if everyone benefits of it.” Now for the personal part. “My first wife left me to become a priestess. Our views on life were... diametrically opposed.” He looked up to see that the doctor had indeed relaxed at the reciprocation of his gesture.

The doctor sat down. “Yeah. So, to get back to the point, you were bonded to two people, right?”

“Correct.”

“What was the difference between your marriage to your first wife and being bonded with Amanda?”

He considered it. “A long courtship preceded my second wedding, which suited both of us, since neither of us was young anymore.” Though Amanda had been considerably older. “We spent far more time together, and she involved herself in almost all my activities.” _What?_ she'd asked. _You think I spent seven hundred years sitting at home? Dear, witches that do not learn to be interfering busybodies either inside their clan or somewhere amongst humans don't survive their first century, they whither away in boredom._

“Yeah. That's what humans call a relationship.” The doctor was lying on Spock's bed now, eyes on the ceiling. “Listen, I'm guessing your son's all twisted up in his grief, like all Vulcans are, and he's one of the ones that shuts himself down as much as possible. Not many of you are comfortable with bein' less than perfect at all times. Understandable, except it meant he shut out Jim, and that's not how you treat anyone you're supposed to be married to.”

“Doctor, the link between t'hy'la is all-encompassing. They have access to each other's every thought, if they wish. They view each other's entire mind when they bond. For my son, only the ceremony stands between being linked and being officially bonded.” 

The doctor grimaced, but remained silent. Sarek turned away to sort through his messages and save the materials he needed to illustrate to the admirals that, yes, it was time to allow Vulcans unlimited access to Starfleet's Memory Alpha and in-depth planetary surveys so they could be compared to those in the Science Academy's back-up archive on QRW-O34. “You doin' that thing on Qwerty tomorrow?”

“I have a presentation scheduled on the subject, yes.” T'Mika had correctly surmised that the doctor became easier to understand with extended exposure.

“Jim kinda described his bonding like that.” Sarek abandoned his preparation to give the doctor his full attention. “A half-remembered presentation or lecture, I mean. A flood of images that gave him an impression of Spock's life, and which seemed to make complete sense at the time, but left only the most basic kernel of understanding behind.” The doctor's words had slowed. “'s not enough. No such thing as instant relationships, even with a Vulcan-voodoo-marriage. Needs work.” The last was mumbled into the pillow, and then the doctor was asleep.

Sarek left him to his rest. Leonard, too, had a tendency to overexert himself.

He started his rounds of the Starfleet campus early. He knocked on his neighbour's door. “Come in, Ambassador. May I offer you a glass of water. Feena will give you an overview of our family's needs momentarily.” 

The six-year-old was learning to memorise information and present it concisely and in a logical order. Sarek approved of Lokshan's continued education of his children. “That would be appreciated.”


End file.
